


A Turn Up For The Books: or, How Greg and Mycroft Took Advantage of Sherlock and John's Meddling: Director’s Cut

by bigblueboxat221b



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: A Little Bit Of Crack, Blind Date, Choose Your Own Ending, Crack, Established Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade, M/M, director's cut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-02
Updated: 2018-08-02
Packaged: 2019-06-20 14:27:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,474
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15536259
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bigblueboxat221b/pseuds/bigblueboxat221b
Summary: In which John and Sherlock set up Greg and Mycroft with unexpected results…EXTENDED SCENES





	1. The Set Up

**Author's Note:**

> I was pleasantly surprised at the reception received by A Turn Up For The Books. A lot of people wanted to know what happened after one ending or another, so I’ve decided to release this, the Director’s Cut.  
> It includes all the original endings along with ‘what happens afterwards’ for each ending (so no need to cut back and forward from the first edition). Most are still fairly crack-y, some veer further into gentle emotional stuff. All have happy endings.  
> SO…chose your favourite ending again, or see what happened with the others. I hope you enjoy these extensions, they were as fun to write as the originals. Thank you for loving them enough to make these happen <3
> 
> This is a choose your own ending story.  
> ***I SUGGEST YOU READ THIS STORY SHOWING ONE CHAPTER AT A TIME OTHERWISE YOU RISK SPOILERS FOR SUBSEQUENT CHAPTERS***  
> Chapter 1 is the set up.  
> Chapters 2-5 are the alternative endings.  
> After the end of chapter 1, there will be links to each ending so you can choose how much Greg and Mycroft mess with Sherlock and John.  
> I hope you enjoy it; it was a lot of fun to write.

 “Mycroft?”

“Gregory.”

They blinked at each other for a long moment.

“What are you doing here?” Greg asked hesitantly. “Sherlock told me he needed to see me here. Something to do with the Harrison case?”

Mycroft sighed with exasperation. “I believe you and I have been set up, for want of a better term.”  
“What?”

“Set up, Gregory. Sherlock and John believe you and I are attracted to each other, and have orchestrated this meeting to encourage us to…act on the alleged attraction.”

“Right,” Greg said. He looked at Mycroft, who was wearing his ‘I have no opinion on this matter, I’m just the messenger’ expression.

“So you reckon they don’t know, then?”

“Know what, Gregory?” Mycroft sounded the epitome of innocence.

Greg sighed and decided to go with the shockingly obvious. “That you and I have been shagging like rabbits on every available surface for the past six months, Mycroft.”

Mycroft managed to display both an aloof reserve and noticeably pink cheeks. “I believe our subterfuge has been successful thus far,” he conceded finally.

Greg grinned at him. “So…what should we do about it?”

“Whatever we do, the security cameras will need…amending.”

“I’ll leave that to you. Any ideas?”

Mycroft’s expression was smug. “Several, my dear…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How evil a plan should Greg and Mycroft enact?  
> [Blue](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15536259/chapters/36065532) – pleading ignorance  
> [Medium-rare](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15536259/chapters/36065553) – pretending disaster  
> [Well Done](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15536259/chapters/36065583) – blatant enjoyment  
> [Charcoal](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15536259/chapters/36065610) – delayed impact


	2. Blue

“Sorry we couldn’t meet you at our flat last night,” John said. “Caught up at the morgue.”

“No problem,” Greg said. “Mycroft was there, he filled me in.”

“Did he?” John asked. The smirk was evident despite his attempts to hold it back.

“Yeah, thanks for the dinner. It was really good, you’ll have to give me the recipe.”

“Ah, so you had dinner together?” John asked. “Mrs. Hudson cooked, you’ll have to thank her.”

“Well, Mycroft didn’t really eat. I took the leftovers home, it was brilliant for lunch today.”

John blinked at him. “So you didn’t have dinner together.”

“Not really. I mean, I ate, Mycroft made snide comments about his brother then finally told me what I needed to know about the Harrison case.”

“Okay,” John said slowly. “Nothing else? No other conversation?”

Greg shrugged. “Not really. Oh, that reminds me, half your light bulbs are out, did you know? Sherlock again, I’m guessing?”

“Um, yeah,” John replied.

“Might want to fix those. Made things a bit weird, sitting there by candlelight.”

“Right,” John said.

He looked confused, Greg thought with satisfaction.

 

_Hook, line and sinker, Myc._

_See you tonight xx G_

_[7.42pm]_

 

+++

John sat patiently while Sherlock ranted. He had been so certain his plan would work and it had taken John quite some effort to convince him of Greg’s nonchalant denial. In the end they’d watched the surveillance video, and John had been proven right.

“But the evidence is there!” Sherlock exclaimed, even as they watched Greg and Mycroft awkwardly greet each other, sit while Greg ate, then leave, Greg clearly carrying the leftovers he’d bundled up.

“Well you can see it happened the way Greg said,” John told him, pointing at the screen. It was strange – Sherlock was so rarely incorrect, and this effort to help his brother and Greg had been unusual to say the least. John frowned, leaning in as Sherlock started the recording again. Something had caught his eye at the edge of the image…

As he was about to point out the anomaly, Sherlock sprang from his chair, stabbing his finger at the same spot John had been examining. “There!”

They watched again, the inconsistency becoming more obvious with every viewing.

“Ah, brother dear,” Sherlock said, sitting back as smug as John had ever seen him, “you’ve been sloppy editing this tape.”

John, irritated though he was by Sherlock’s manner, had to agree. Greg’s coat flickered in and out at the beginning of the recording; there had been a hasty job editing and the detail had not been noticed.

Until now.

“I assume you have a plan,” John asked, settling himself on the sofa as Sherlock began to pace. His job was now to wait, and follow Sherlock if and when he bolted out of the flat. He had no idea why Sherlock was so fixated on this now, but it was better than some of his other experiments, so John was happy to humour him.

“Of course, John,” Sherlock said, his eyes gleaming. He paced, thinking hard, while John waited.

“Right,” John said eventually. “So we’re going to…”

“Isn’t it obvious John?”

John rolled his eyes. “Of course not.”

“You get Greg here. I’ll get Mycroft here. Leave the rest to me.”

“This sounds an awful lot like the last plan,” John pointed out.

“Yes, but this time it’s a better plan,” Sherlock told him.

John sighed and picked up his phone. “Tonight at 7?” he asked.

“Yes,” Sherlock replied, already typing frantically on his laptop, setting up something.

 

_You free tonight? Sherlock wants a word. – John_

_[4.12pm]_

 

By 6.50pm John was pacing, thoroughly pissed off at Sherlock. He’d been told exactly nothing else about the plan for tonight, except that he would need to be waiting in the sitting room for their guests while Sherlock prepared himself, whatever that meant. Put on a tight shirt and made a grand entrance, probably.

“Alright, John?” Greg greeted him a few moments later. He glanced around. “Sherlock here?”

“He’ll be out in a minute or two,” John told him. “Have a seat. Get you a beer?”

“Cheers, no,” Greg replied, dropping onto the sofa. “Long day, I might drop into a heap if I have a drink.”

They made small talk for a moment until the measured pace up the stairs marked Mycroft’s arrival.

“Good evening,” Mycroft said to the room at large, standing in the doorway. “Is my brother home, Doctor Watson? He was quite insistent I make myself available this evening.”

“Yeah, should be out in a minute,” John said.

Mycroft seated himself at the other end of the sofa, offering Greg a polite smile, nothing more.

John wondered once again what Sherlock had seen to make him so certain the two men in front of him were romantically attracted to each other. They certainly seemed like nothing more than distant acquaintances. John shrugged.

As he was about to offer Mycroft a drink, Sherlock’s bedroom door thunked dramatically open and he swept into the room. “I’m sure you both know why you’re here?”

His remark was addressed to the two men sitting on the sofa, and John had the strange feeling of being a fly on the wall in a school principal’s office.

“Uh, no,” Greg replied. His uncomfortable shift was exactly that of a schoolboy caught with his hand in the cookie jar, and John found himself smirking. He _was_ hiding something…

“Sherlock, if you would say what you mean for once, this will be a far smoother conversation,” Mycroft told him with the air of long suffering he so often adopted when speaking to his brother.

Sherlock levelled a gaze at him, which Mycroft returned, unflinching. “You, brother, are conducting an affair with none other than this man, Gregory Lestrade!”

Mycroft stared at him in astonishment for a long moment before turning to Greg. “I believe I owe you ten pounds, my dear,” he said.

“Told you,” Greg said, looking smug. “He’s too impatient to try something else, he just wants to have it out. Loves a good ‘I told you so’ moment when he gets to point out all the clues and stuff.”

“A dénouement,” Mycroft supplied. The affectionate smile he offered was matched by Greg, to John’s endless surprise.

They turned back to Sherlock, who was looking between them in amazement. “If you had just asked one of us, we would have confirmed your suspicion, Sherlock,” Mycroft told him. “Gregory and I have been seeing each other for a period of time, yes. It was, and remains, none of your business. If you raise the subject in an inappropriate manner or context…” he sighed. “I can’t really be bothered offering the usual threats, brother dear, but rest assured Gregory’s comfort is of the highest importance to me. Do be discrete, won’t you?”

Sherlock had not uttered a word, and John recognised the expression on his face as one of loss – the dramatic unveiling of his deductions had been taken away by the simple expedient of a full confession by the accused.

John sighed. The strop after this would be particularly difficult to deal with. He wondered absently if Sherlock had prepared diagrams in advance. He always sulked harder when his diagrams weren’t necessary.

“Thanks,” John said, as both Greg and Mycroft stood up, leaving Sherlock to stand stiffly by the fireplace, ignoring them both. “Sorry about all this. Easier just to let him go sometimes.”

“Indeed,” Mycroft murmured.

“Congratulations, I guess, is that right?” John said as the three of them walked over to the doorway.

“I believe it would be appropriate,” Mycroft said, glancing back at his brother. “We are to be married next week.”


	3. Medium-rare

“What the fuck, John?”

“Greg?”

“Who the hell else would be calling you this late on a Monday night? Where the hell were you two tonight?”

“What? What do you mean?”

“You know exactly what I mean, John Watson. Sherlock asked me to come over to talk about the Harrison case, and he wasn’t there! Instead I ended up sitting with his bloody brother for an hour waiting for you two to wander in!”

“Fuck, I’m sorry. Sherlock dragged me out to the morgue, I had no idea.”

“I tried calling you!”

“No reception in the morgue, you know that, mate.”

“Yeah, well, it was awkward as arse. Mycroft thought Sherlock wanted to talk to him too, so we sat there like a right pair for ages until he cracked it and left. I have a charming message for your wanker of a flatmate from him, by the way.”

“So you didn’t talk?”

“About what? We have nothing in common, John! He runs the sodding country and I chase after his brother, pretending I know what’s going on.”

“Well, you could have eaten, I know Mrs. Hudson had brought our tea up right before Sherlock dragged me out.”

“Oh, is that what all the romantic lighting is about? The candles didn’t make it half awkward too, thanks for that. And I was hardly going to eat your sodding dinner, John.”

“Christ, Greg, are you telling me you two didn’t…”

“Didn’t what?”

“Talk. Eat together. Something.”

“Are you telling me this was a set up? Did you seriously set me up with Mycroft Holmes?”

“Well, it’s pretty obvious he’s interested in you.”

“What the fuck are you basing that on?”

“Well, Sherlock says he is.”

“Yes, and when has Sherlock ever tried to embarrass his brother? Or me, for that matter?”

“Are you saying he’s wrong?”

“Based on last night, yeah. I’d say he’s bloody wrong!”

“Christ, Greg, I’m sorry. I’ll talk to him.”

“Tell him to keep out of my life!”

“I thought you were interested in Mycroft, though…”

“Well yeah, I was, but it was pretty clear last night that he’s not interested, and now it’s too bloody awkward to bring it up again. Bloody Sherlock has bollocks’ed up any chance I had with his brother.”

“Fuck.”

“Damn right. Tell him not to call me, I’ll call him. Later.”

“Right. Sorry Greg.”

+++

“I’ve asked you not to do this, Sherlock.” Mycroft’s voice was calm in the darkness of his office. He reached over to turn on a lamp, illuminating his brother lying on his sofa, socked feet sticking over the arm and into the air.

“We need to talk,” Sherlock said quietly.

Mycroft raised one eyebrow, resting on the edge of his desk.

“You and Greg have been avoiding this for months. Years,” Sherlock began. He sat up, looking directly at his brother. “I offered you the perfect evening. Dinner, candles, a mutual topic to bond over.” He frowned. “According to John, Greg is under the distinct impression you are not interested in him at all.”

Mycroft watched Sherlock, the tiny actions only a brother could interpret adding a wealth of information to the spoken words.

_I don’t understand, and it’s important…to me. Personally. I have a vested interest in this working out. I know what I have observed but the data is wrong._

“Ah,” Mycroft replied. “You wish to alter your relationship with John, is that correct?” He tut-tutted. “I do wish you wouldn’t use Detective Inspector Lestrade and me as your guinea pigs. John will not be moved by theatrics, Sherlock.” He lowered his chin, looking stern. “Only a genuine exposure of your emotional connection to him will convince him of your true intentions.”

Sherlock looked irritated; no doubt he knew how his brother was gleaning so much information from him. Mycroft was used to reading between the lines of his brother’s spoken words to the actual message he was too proud to send clearly.

“This has nothing to do with me.” _It has everything to do with me._

“You need to fix this, Mycroft.” _I need you to show me how to fix this._

“It’s revolting to consider, but the tension between you two needs a physical resolution.” _I don’t know how to do it, but the tension between John and I needs a resolution._

He looked at his brother, ostensibly frowning, but Mycroft saw past it. _Help me. Please._

Mycroft sighed. “Very well, brother.”

“Finally.” _Thank you._

“Make arrangements for a similar scenario at Baker Street. Ensure Detective Inspector Lestrade is present.” He sighed. “Consider this a favour of the highest magnitude, Sherlock. Should my proposition be denied, it will be a great loss.”

Sherlock nodded once, sweeping out of the room.

Mycroft sighed again, rounding his desk to remove his mobile phone.

+++

_I will not see you tonight, my dear._

_Please check our secure email for details._

_Mycroft xx_

_[11.51pm]_

+++

John watched, his mouth hanging open as Greg and Mycroft met once again in their living room. The three hour delay, and he fact he was sitting in the very chair pictured, was strange; it was not as strange as the clear image of Mycroft Holmes flirting.

Greg appeared a little taken by surprise, but he was clearly just as interested, and when he kissed Mycroft between the shepherd’s pie and the spotted dick, John wondered if he had accidentally wandered into an alternative dimension.

“Sherlock?” he called. “You might want to see this.”

“I assume it is the commencement of my brother and Lestrade’s relationship,” Sherlock shouted back from his bedroom.

“Yes,” John said. It was always a bit deflating when John was still amazed by the results of a case – such as this was – and Sherlock was already bored of it.

This felt a bit different though. Sherlock had been distracted since before this evening, before John had told him about the video. John couldn’t put his finger on it; as he watched Greg and Mycroft leave their flat hand in hand, he couldn’t help smiling at them. He wondered how much inner strength it had taken for Mycroft to approach Greg. A hell of a lot, knowing Mycroft. The man still called him ‘Doctor Watson’ after knowing him for years; interpersonal relations were not really his division.

And yet he’d found the strength to go after what he wanted. John couldn’t deny it, he envied the man that. God knew he was still sitting here, chicken-shit that he was, without the balls to do anything about what _he_ really wanted.

_Fuck it._

“Sherlock?” John asked, standing suddenly, leaving his laptop to tap tentatively on the bedroom door. It was ajar, so he knocked again, ducking his head around the doorjamb.

“What is it, John?” Sherlock asked. He was not lying on the bed as John imagined he might be, but was sitting in the wing chair by the window. His face was half illuminated by the almost full moon, and he was looking right at John.

“I was just wondering if you’re okay,” John asked him. “I mean, your brother…” he trailed off, with no idea where that sentence was going.

“What about my brother?” Sherlock asked. There was a plaintive note in his voice John was unaccustomed to hearing. It seemed he really did want to hear what John had to say.

“Well, I didn’t think he had it in him,” John said, trying to keep it light. “I mean, from the look of it he made a proper move. Certainly convinced Greg he was for real.”

Sherlock hummed in reply. Just when John thought he wouldn’t reply, he said, “What did he say?”

“I don’t know,” John replied. “I mean, we don’t record audio, you know that.”

“Guess, John. What would he say, a man in that position.”

John stared at him. This was so unlike Sherlock. “Um, well, I guess he’d been interested in Greg for a while, from what you said, and he must have known Greg was interested too. I mean if you saw it, Mycroft must have-”

“A subjective viewpoint is often blind,” Sherlock interrupted. “Blind to details others would see, open to misinterpretation or dismissal of details that might be coloured by desire for or against their existence.”

“Right,” John said. He wasn’t even really sure where this conversation was going, but he tried to pick it up again. “Well, even assuming Mycroft wasn’t sure, he must have noticed something that told him Greg would at least listen to him. Not reject him immediately, or in a nasty way or anything. I can’t imagine Mycroft approaching someone without at least thinking about that.”

“No,” Sherlock said, his eyes locked on John. “He would certainly consider the temperament and likely tact and empathy of his target.”

“Yeah,” John said a little uncomfortably. “So, he probably said something complimentary, told Greg how long he’d liked him, and why, and what made him think they’d be good together. Or maybe just something about how he’d like to get to know Greg better, you know, personally. Ask him on a date.” John shrugged. “Kind of depends how deep in it he is. And how much he wanted to tell Greg. I mean, it’s one thing to say, ‘hey, I kind of like you, let’s go on a date’, and another to say, ‘I adore you, let’s start seeing each other’. I guess it comes back to how sure he was that Greg would be, you know, receptive.”

Sherlock hummed again, apparently deep in thought. John waited, but there was no response. For some reason he was disappointed.

“Good night, then,” he said to the darkened room.

“John,” Sherlock said, and there was an edge to his voice.

“Yes?” John replied, turning back.

Sherlock sat frozen for a moment, before standing, still illuminated before the window. “Will you…come here? I can’t see you.”

“I can turn on the lights,” John offered.

“No! No, this is good. Better,” Sherlock answered.

John frowned but did what he was asked, walking further into Sherlock’s room, stopping right before him so the moonlight hit his face too. “Alright?” he asked.

Sherlock took a deep breath. “You are a deeply empathetic person, John.”

“Am I? Um, thanks,” John said.

“Yes. And I…” Sherlock stopped, then took a deep breath and said, “I kind of like you John, and would very much like you accompany me on a date.”

The words hung in the air. John blinked at Sherlock, trying to decide if he was testing a hypothesis or something.

The look of terror on his face told John no. It made his heart begin to pound.

“Sherlock,” John said, very quietly, “May I counter your suggestion?”

Sherlock nodded, eyes wide in the dark.

John took all the courage he had – and some borrowed from Mycroft Holmes – and said, “I adore you, Sherlock Holmes, and I would like to start seeing you.”

Sherlock stood stock still, eyes moving frantically over John. His uncertainty was agonising.

“You should have watched the video,” John said, a rush of affection washing over him. “Then you’d know what happens next.”

“Wh-what happens next?” Sherlock asked.

“This,” John said, reaching up to kiss him. It was chaste and gentle, punctuated by a shuddering sigh from Sherlock.

In the darkness, John and Sherlock stood in the moonlight.

“We cannot ever tell my brother that his actions spurred ours,” Sherlock told John.

“I’m sure we can fool him for a while,” John said, tightening his arms around Sherlock. “I mean, you saw through him and Greg. And they’ll be all distracted now, with the new relationship to figure out. Really, how hard can it be?”


	4. Well done

“…and there’s no way we can…” Sherlock stopped speaking and moving at the same time. John bumped into him, made a noise of irritation and stepped around Sherlock, who was surveying their flat in horror.

“What?” John asked. Things looked more or less the same as when they’d left them earlier that evening. A bit messier, perhaps, but nothing to stop dead in the middle of the doorway for.

“Sherlock, what is it?” John asked again.

“Greg and Mycroft were here,” Sherlock said, his voice forced and sounding like he might be sick at any moment.

“Yeah, we set them up, remember? That’s why we’ve been at the morgue,” John told him. “Hey, we should check the cameras!”

He started to move over to the bookcase but Sherlock stopped him. He pointed at the floor.

“Greg and Mycroft,” Sherlock said, forcing the words out, “had sex all over this room.”

“What?” John said. “No they didn’t!”

“Yes they did,” Sherlock said. His eyes were darting around, wide and close to panic. “There, and there, and…oh, God, my chair…DON’T TOUCH THAT, JOHN!”

John’s hand froze. “What?”

“We need to burn that. It’s been…defiled.”

“What, my jumper?”

Sherlock looked at John, eyes anguished. “I am certain, John.”

“No way,” John hesitated, but he didn’t touch the jumper. “I’m going to look at the video feed.”

“No, John! You’ll have to disinfect your brain!”

John rolled his eyes. “I’ll only look at a second. As soon as anyone gets naked I’ll shut it off.”

He opened his laptop, Sherlock pacing anxiously before him. The video feed took a second to load, but when it did, it was hardly what he expected.

Text appeared on the black screen.

JOHN AND SHERLOCK

“Sherlock, it’s addressed to both of us…”

“What?”

As soon as Sherlock appeared over John’s shoulder, the black screen vanished. It wasn’t a video, exactly; more of a collection of very short clips, edited together to change so fast it was mesmerising.

In ten seconds it was over, and John wondered if he genuinely could disinfect his brain.

Greg and Mycroft, shagging in every place Sherlock had mentioned. There were an impressive array of positions, incorporating the floor, Sherlock’s chair and John’s favourite jumper.

As they stared, transfixed in horror, more text appeared on the screen.

DON’T MEDDLE IN OUR LIVES AGAIN.

Sherlock and John’s phone both pinged at the same time.

Sherlock was still frozen in place. John fumbled in his pocket for his.

 

Understood?

[received 9.57pm]

 

_Yeah. Sorry._

_You couldn’t think of a less graphic way of telling us?_

_[sent 9.58pm]_

 

Mycroft’s idea.

More about Sherlock than you, mate.

Sorry.

[received 10.00pm]

_No you’re not._

_[sent 10.02pm]_

 

No, I’m not.

Pint tomorrow?

[received 10.04pm]

_You’re buying, wanker._

_[sent 10.05pm]_

 

Fair call. See you at 6.

[received 10.07]

Mycroft says hi.

[received 10.08pm]

 

_Fuck off, Greg._

_[sent 10.09pm]_

+++

John winced. “Are you sure you want to drink that?”

Greg looked at him and frowned, glancing at the pint in his hand. “What?”

“That,” John repeated, gesturing at the beer. “I mean, it’s pretty calorie heavy.”

Greg blinked, still not understanding.

John’s face spread into a grin as he explained, “From what I saw, mate, you might want to start thinking about a lower calorie diet.” He patted his stomach in a discreet gesture. “Speaking as a doctor, of course.”

“Fuck off, John,” Greg said good naturedly, though he did colour a little at the insinuation.

“I’m just saying…” John repeated, smiling around the lip of his own pint.

“Well, just don’t,” Greg retorted, drinking defiantly.

There was a silence as both men drank. It eased from a little tense into their usual companionable atmosphere over the next few minutes.

“So, you and Mycroft, then?” John asked finally.

Greg shot him a suspicious look.

“Oh come on, let’s talk about it. Elephant in the room and all that,” John told him.

“Fine,” Greg replied. “Yes, Mycroft.”

“Sherlock’s pretty pissed he didn’t pick it.”

“Mycroft’s pretty smug he kept it secret for so long.” Greg replied. “Six months,” he added in response to John’s questioning look.

“Pretty good,” John said.

Another silence, tense from Greg’s end as he waited for the other shoe to drop.

“Your round,” Greg said finally, draining his pint and placing the glass directly in front of John.

“Yeah, alright,” John said. “Hungry?”

“Yeah,” Greg replied absently, distracted by the football.

When John returned with the beer he passed Greg’s over without comment, leaving their order number visible for the waiter when their meals were ready.

They sat in silence, watching the match; it was a repeat, but John didn’t know the score so it was as good as live, more or less.

Finally the waiter arrived, placing their meals down and picking up the order number.

“What the…” Greg started, but was cut off by the waiter.

“Oh, you’re trying the Fierce Blonde?” she asked Greg, pointing at his pint. “What do you think?”

“What?” Greg asked, still blinking at his plate.

“The beer. First low-cal we’ve had on tap, but it’s selling pretty well. Everyone says it tastes like the house larger, what do you think?”

Greg stared at her, speechless, before turning to John.

“Yes?” John asked, picking up a chip from his own plate and eating it.

The waitress looked a little confused, but figured it was something between the men, throwing them an uncertain smile before scurrying away.

“I’d say you’d better eat before it gets cold,” John said conversationally picking up his knife and fork and diving into his steak and chips, “but that’s not really an issue with a green salad, is it?”

“You’re a…” Greg started, then stopped himself. He turned to look at John. “Is there an end date on this, or will I just stop drinking with you?”

“I dunno,” John said. “It’s not gonna be easy to get those images out of my head.”

“Collateral damage, mate,” Greg reminded him. He picked up his beer, eyeing the salad in frustration, then remembered the beer was low-cal and put it back on the bar, wrinkling his nose.

“Damage is damage,” John replied. “I’m thinking my memory will start to fade somewhere around the same time my favourite jumper's replaced.”

“No problem,” Greg replied immediately. “Let me know and I’ll do it tomorrow.”

“Good,” John said.

Greg frowned. “What about…” he stopped, colouring fiercely as he caught John’s raised eyebrow. “Sherlock’s chair,” he finished at a defiant mutter.

John shrugged. “I only care about my jumper. From what I could see it was the only thing at risk of actual body fluids.” He smirked. “If Sherlock wants to bring it up with you, he will.”

Greg groaned at the idea.

John, struggling to hold back the smirk still on his face, pointed to Greg’s plate. “Aren’t you going to eat? My medical assessment of your physical condition tells me you’re not eating enough green vegetables.”

“Fuck,” Greg muttered, downing his beer. Low-cal or not, he needed it if he was going to get through this.

“Have you considered joining a gym?” John asked as though he hadn’t heard anything. “I’ve heard there’re quite a few low impact senior’s classes down the road.”

Greg sighed. It would be a long evening.


	5. Charcoal

“Okay, we can eat and watch at the same time, then,” John said, eyes rolling. He moved into the kitchen to portion out their dinner as Sherlock stopped in the doorway, searching the sitting room for clues. There was no noise, and when John walked back in, dinner in hand and a beer tucked under his arm Sherlock was standing in the doorway, frowning to himself.

“I can’t tell anything,” Sherlock said. “I can’t even tell if they’ve been here.”

“Well they have, Mrs. Hudson said they were both up here for ages,” John said. Sherlock was still frowning at the room, muttering to himself. John placed Sherlock’s meal on his chair and sat in his own chair, beginning to eat without waiting for Sherlock. He wouldn’t start until he’d solved the mystery.

“We’ll have to watch the CCTV,” Sherlock said finally. He pulled his laptop off the desk and opened it, bringing up the evening’s video feed.

Before he could begin to watch, John carefully closed the laptop. “Food first,” he said.

When Sherlock pouted, John picked up the laptop, arching one eyebrow. He was pleased they could communicate so effectively now, and watched fondly as Sherlock slumped in his chair, eating the bare minimum of curry and rice before John wordlessly passed his laptop back.

He put his own dinner to the side, perching on the arm of Sherlock’s chair to watch over his shoulder.

“There they are,” John said, grinning to himself at Sherlock’s restrained huff of ‘obviously.’

They watched Greg and Mycroft talk briefly, standing in the middle of their sitting room. They shifted, moving hesitantly closer as they spoke. Mycroft even smiled a little when Greg touched his arm. John could feel Sherlock practically vibrating with energy as he watched his plan play out.

Pride, John reflected later, comes inevitably before a fall.

Mycroft excused himself to the bathroom, and Greg wandered over to the bookshelf, running his finger along the spines of John’s books as he waited, casually moving out of view of the static camera.

When Mycroft returned completely naked, John spat beer across the room. Sherlock crowed with delight and attempted to stop himself seeing his brother’s nudity at the same time.

“Even Greg can’t ignore such a blatant display,” Sherlock said, forgetting to forget Greg’s name.

As it turned out, Greg had spent the moments in which the attention had been on Mycroft stripping off his own clothes.

Sherlock’s crowing stopped abruptly.

John was transfixed, like a civilian bystander at a car accident.

Locked in horror, they watched Greg go down on Mycroft, the back of his head visible, mercifully blocking the details of his technique. Mycroft seemed to be enjoying it, whatever he was doing.

John and Sherlock were frozen in place, at least until Greg bent Mycroft over Sherlock’s chair and started enthusiastically fucking him.

“Christ!” Sherlock shouted, jumping up, knocking John’s beer over and fumbling to tear off his own clothes in disgust. John was only half a second behind him, though he jumped more as a reaction to Sherlock’s sudden movement. His face was far more amused than Sherlock’s.

“Turn it off!” Sherlock barked, pulling off his shirt, dumping the fabric on the floor.

John paused it, then turned to Sherlock with a huge smirk on his face.

“Bit of a problem, there,” he said. “If you turn it off, you won’t know where else they’ve…celebrated their relationship.” He looked around consideringly. “Mycroft did a good job cleaning up, didn’t he?”

Sherlock stared in horror. “You watch it,” he said to John. His tone was more pleading than anything.

John snorted. “No way. Even if they did shag in my chair, I was in the bloody Army. Body fluids aren’t my favourite, but I’ll give everything a bit of a wipe down and it’ll be fine.”

Sherlock’s face was an agony of indecision.

“You could always call your brother and ask him,” John suggested. “Or…”

“Or?” Sherlock said hopefully.

“Or we can start negotiations.”

Sherlock looked resigned, and John continued to smirk. He knew he was going to win this one. Now what would Sherlock give to not have to watch that video…

 

+++

“Two weeks, no experiments,” Sherlock blurted the next morning as John ate his breakfast – bacon sandwiches and coffee from Speedy’s. He wasn’t risking eating anything from their kitchen quite yet.

John looked at Sherlock over the newspaper. This had started sooner than he’d thought.

Sherlock had spent the entire night out of the flat, possibly to avoid any surfaces his brother’s naked skin had touched. He was now sitting on his chair, which was covered by a large tarpaulin. He rustled when he moved, and John smirked when he rustled.

His face was starting to hurt, but it didn’t make it less amusing.

“Not even close,” John replied, returning to the sport section. He turned the page without reading a word, wondering whether Sherlock would continue the conversation.

“Four weeks,” Sherlock said, adding reluctantly, “and I will clean – or pay to have cleaned – every surface and appliance in the kitchen so you can eat off them.”

“Hmmm,” John said, pretending to consider. “Nope,” he added.

Sherlock ground his teeth in frustration, sitting back in a flurry of rustling plastic.

John’s jaw ached with a supressed smile.

Counting to thirty as slowly as possible before he moved, John lowered his newspaper. “I’ve made a list,” he said. “When you’ve done the first half and agreed to the second, I will, you know,” he waved one hand in the air.

“Watch my brother’s sex tape?” Sherlock said acerbically.

“Find out where they shagged, yes,” John replied. He stood up with a distinct lack of rustling and took a sheet of paper from his wallet. He’d written it last night in preparation for this conversation. It was possible Sherlock would try to talk about it at a crime scene or something, and he wanted to have it ready to go. “Here you go.”

John made to leave, then turned and said, “I know you probably won’t eat, but I wouldn’t touch the bananas, just in case.”

Sherlock gave him a look of deepest loathing. It was ruined by the rustle of the tarpaulin.

The smug grin he sported all the way to work was worth his aching cheeks, John decided.

 

John’s list of demands

First half: to be completed before Intel is collected

All completed experiments thrown out and rubbish bin emptied

All current experiments placed on bottom shelves of the fridge or bench under the window

All your dirty clothes out of the bathroom

One bathroom shelf permanently cleared for John’s use

Second half: to be agreed to before Intel is collected

No more human remains in our fridge

No more running off without John, or John is allowed to throw out an experiment

You will eat one meal (size determined by John) per day

No more toxic fumes, poisons or experiments with serious personal hazards

No more waking John unless it’s an 8 and Greg is not available

NO MORE EXPERIMENTING ON JOHN WITHOUT INFORMED CONSENT EVERY SINGLE TIME

 

John’s shift was long; he didn’t make it home before tea. Beans on toast would be enough and he’d crash out in front of the telly, he thought tiredly.

His flatmate had other ideas.

As soon as John walked in, Sherlock stood and grabbed his arm without a word. They strode into the bathroom (no dirty clothes, one empty shelf); the kitchen (clean benches, fridge shelves rearranged, rubbish bin empty) and Sherlock’s bedroom (experimental equipment from kitchen set up in the corner, no dirty clothes in sight).

“Here,” Sherlock said abruptly, handing John his own list. A signature was scrawled along the bottom, directly below the capitalised NO MORE EXPERIMENTING ON JOHN. He folded his arms. “I am going out. I suggest you make a detailed list of every item touched by naked skin so we can dispose of everything as soon as possible.”

He flounced out of the room before John could speak. It took him another few moments before he could do more than blink at the paper in his hand. Just to check he wasn’t imagining the whole scene, John retraced their steps, staring into the fridge until he felt the chilly air cool him.

_Christ._

Sherlock had done everything on the top half of the list. He had signed the paper, too. It was his genuine signature - John wasn’t going to fall for the flourish of ‘Shelly Housemartin’ again. Despite the proof in his hands, John couldn’t quite believe Sherlock had agreed so readily to everything on his list.

He’d been going for a best case scenario, fully expecting to have to concede at least some of the points. John read his list again, trying to even imagine their flat with every one of those points addressed. It was kind of weird. Very…un-Sherlock. Very un-them. Given the stiff, almost offended air Sherlock had displayed, a trickle of discomfort slid down John’s spine. Had he pushed it too far?

John twisted his shoulder, trying to dislodge the uncomfortable reminder of how abruptly Sherlock had greeted him. Actually thinking back, Sherlock had not greeted him at all; simply grabbed him, shown him the changes, and left. Not a complaint or pointed comment searching for praise in sight.

Definitely a bit not good.

John sat in his chair, quietly waiting for Sherlock to return. While he waited he copied the footage of their flat to his phone and deleted it from their server. He doubted he was going to need it; he had another plan. If there was any way for him to avoid watching Greg and Mycroft shag all over their flat, he’d give it a go.

 

Greg. Do me a favour, mate?

(9.10pm)

_Probably. Depends what you want._

_(9.14pm)_

Apart from Sherlock’s chair, what else did you and Mycroft defile in this flat?

(9.15pm)

_Do you really want to know?_

_(9.17pm)_

Certain parties are interested, yes.

Personally I’ve washed my sheets and wiped down my chair and I’m good to go.

(9.19pm)

_Army?_

_(9.20pm)_

Army.

(9.20pm)

_Right._

_In that case, I’ve attached a list._

_[locations.xlsx]_

_(9.30pm)_

Bloody hell, Greg.

(9.36pm)

_Too much?_

_(9.38pm)_

Way too bloody much. Next time a list of places will be fine.

I DID NOT NEED A SUMMARY OF TIMES OR POSITIONS.

(9.40pm)

_My bad. ;)_

_(9.42pm)_

Fuck you very much.

Prat.

(9.44pm)

_If you and Sherlock get your arses into gear we could be brothers, mate._

_Is that any way to speak to your brother? :P_

_(9.47pm)_

Fuck. Off. Gregory.

(9.48pm)

_See you at the pub tomorrow, then._

_(9.50pm)_

Whatever.

(9.52pm)

 

John tossed his phone onto Sherlock’s chair and scrubbed his hands over his face. The list wasn’t long, but he knew there were a few things Sherlock wouldn’t have considered. With a sigh, John grabbed a bin bag and made a tour of the flat, grateful at least that they’d kept their shenanigans to the main level. When he’d grabbed everything that could reasonably be thrown out, John tied off the bag before grabbing his phone and texting Mycroft.

 

_Send a cleaning crew for first thing tomorrow morning please._

_(10.02pm)_

_Certainly._

_(10.05pm)_

 

Given Mycroft’s lack of interest or argument, John figured he and Greg were together and he knew exactly why John wanted a cleaner ASAP. And why he was hitting Mycroft up for it, too.

As he collapsed in his chair again, the door downstairs slammed. John held his breath until he could hear Sherlock climbing the stairs, his footsteps slow and measured. When the familiar silhouette appeared in the doorway, standing very still, John knew he needed to apologise. To explain himself.

“Sherlock,” he began…and stopped. How could he say this? “I’ve cleaned up just about everything. Cleaners are coming in tomorrow morning. Don’t have a shower, or used the kitchen or anything. I’ll make sure they clean up all the surfaces.” He gestured to the bag by the door. “Do you have another set of sheets? I grabbed them off your bed, figured you’d rather just get rid of them.”

“Thank you,” Sherlock said, his voice sombre.

 _Fuck_.

It wasn’t enough. Of course it wasn’t, he hadn’t actually apologised.

“Sherlock,” John started again. When the taller man opened his mouth John stood, increasingly desperate to explain himself. “No, listen…I…” he took a deep breath. “That list, _this_ list,” he waved the original sheet of paper, “wasn’t meant to be serious. I figured we’d be negotiating. It was kind of a joke. Sort of.”

Sherlock did not move for a long beat. When he did speak, it was a serious tone John had rarely heard. “These are clearly issues you would prefer resolved, John.”

“Well, yes,” John conceded, embarrassment flooding him as he realised how clumsy his attempt at humour had been. “I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “I didn’t mean to make you feel bad. I just…sometimes when it’s all these things…” John sighed. He was balls-ing this up. Might as well be honest.  “Our life is crazy. Sometimes I just want to come home and be able to make tea, and brush my teeth without worrying about poisoning myself.” As John spoke, he realised it was more than that, more than just him.

“Not it’s more than that. I want _you_ to be able to make tea and brush your teeth without poisoning yourself. Look at this,” he pointed at the second half of the list. “Everything on here is about you. Keeping you from killing yourself one way or another. Well, except the last one. I hate missing Wednesdays.”

“Wednesdays are boring,” Sherlock said.

John smiled hesitantly.

“Look, I didn’t think you’d see it this way,” John said. “I didn’t really think it through.”

“How do you think I saw it?” Sherlock asked.

John thought about it. “Um, I don’t know, like I was having a go at you?”

Sherlock sighed. “I know I’m not a perfect flatmate. But this,” he strode over and took the list from John’s hand, “this is a list of my faults. The reasons you might…” Sherlock stopped dead, clamping his mouth shut.

“I might what?” John said. He looked at Sherlock, mind racing. The blush, shifting weight, not meeting his eyes… “You think this is a list of reasons I might leave you,” John whispered, eyes wide. He knew he was right.

“Bringing all your grievances together would surely give you pause to think,” Sherlock countered. “Most people wouldn’t tolerate even a portion of this list.”

“I’m not… _we’re_ not most people, Sherlock.” John risked a smile. “As I said, almost half the list is ‘things I wish you’d do so I didn’t worry so much about you’. And what about the things I didn’t write, the stuff you do that I like? Or the things I do that drive you crazy?”

To his relief a smile tugged at Sherlock’s mouth. It gave John the courage to go on.

“When I saw how much you’d done today, all the stuff from the top of the list, it was…good. But thinking about our life without that stuff,” he waved his hand at the paper Sherlock now held, “it’s not us, is it?”

“So you’re not going to hold me to this?” Sherlock asked.

“Well,” John said, “not all of it. Not forever,” he grinned, feeling the tension ease. He still wasn’t entirely sure he’d explained himself completely, but Sherlock was far more relaxed now.

“So you’re not planning any major changes?” Sherlock ventured again, looking sideways at John.

“If you mean am I leaving you, the answer is no,” John told him. When he realised how he’d phrased it, John blushed. “I mean, I’m not moving out.”

“Interesting slip,” Sherlock said. “How Freudian.” He bit his lip. “Has proof of Greg and Mycroft’s altered relationship triggered a shift in your view of our arrangement?”

John blinked, translating the complicated language. “Am I…what?”

Sherlock sighed. “Are you committed to…me. To us.”

John blinked. It was an easy question, when someone put it to him like that. “Yes, of course.”

Sherlock appeared to be surprised at the immediacy and intensity of his response. “Right,” he said uncertainly.

“Are you…is that okay?” John asked. He realised he had shifted closer; they were standing very close now, Sherlock looking a little anxious.

It was completely natural to reach out and intertwine their fingers.

It felt right.

They both looked down, adjusting to the new intimacy.

“I still see a problem,” Sherlock murmured finally.

John’s heart stuttered. “You do?”

“I don’t have another set of sheets.”

“Ah,” John replied. “Look, I guess you could share mine.”

Sherlock hummed, pressing his lips to John’s. “Acceptable,” he allowed.

John smiled.


End file.
